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RHYMES 



M 



ROAD AND RIVER 



By CHRIS. WHEELER 



Lays of Lancaster Pike; 

Songs of the Schuylkill River; 

Bent Oars and Broken Spokes; 
Cycling Bab Ballads. 



NOV 16 \: 

i"'' WASHING^ 



PHILADELPHIA: 

E. STANLEY HART & CO. 

18S5. 



7S ^^^"^ 



Copyright, 1885, by Chris. Wheeler. 



EDGAR C. HOWELL, Esq., 

IN REMEMBRANCE 
OF 

Many Pleasant Associations, 

and as a slight token of sincere esteem, 

THIS BOOK 

Is Inscribed 

BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 



THE author makes no pretensions and therefore 
tenders no apologies for what the reader may find in 
this book, even though he is aware of the fact, — unknown 
perhaps to those of his friends who pressed him to pub- 
hsh this volume, — that he might, and perhaps will, do 
better if ever he falls into the publishing pit again. With 
respect to this book, he washes his hands completely of, 
and makes over to several sanguine and enthusiastic 
friends, all responsibility attached to the act of issuing 
from the press what he feels is after all but a gathering 
together of random rhymes ; many of them too hastily 
and thoughtlessly written, all of them perhaps too care- 
lessly collected, and placed in the hands of a publisher, 
to receive from him more attention, whether merited or 
unmerited, than very probably they obtained from the 

author of their existence. 

y 



vi Preface. 

So Chris tenders no apologies for his " Rhymes." 
No, not even to the ultra cultured intellects of Boston, 
though in the neighborhood of the " Hub " are centred 
some of his earliest recollections, recollections of a time 
when though oars bent and flashed across Massachusetts 
waters, no noiseless rubber-hoofed steed carried a rider 
over the roads of Cape Ann, or bore him to a seat on the 
rocks of Cohasset. 

So much for the general public, in case it should — 
unfortunately for itself — be brought into any sort of rela- 
tionship with this book. As for my numerous and kind 
friends in Philadelphia, amongst whom for four years I have 
had generously tendered to me and have enjoyed those social 
relationships and sympathies which sometimes we value too 
lightly ; I will allow that in this special case, it is but a poor 
return for me to add to my many faculties for testing their 
long-suffering good nature, the most questionable one of 
calling into existence and unloading upon them the " bore " 

of a book. 

Chris Wheeler. 

West Philadelphia, September 20th, 1885. 



CONTENTS. 



LAYS OF LANCASTER PIKE. 

To My Bicycle, 13 

America's Song of the " Wheel," .... 18 

A Morning Ride, 21 

Night Lights, 23 

The Breeze of Bryn Mawr, . . . . . 25 

A Cycling Yarn Told on Lancaster Pike, . . 28 

A Song of Lancaster Pike, • • • • • 35 

On the Road, 38 

Bryn Mawr Town, ....... 40 

The Pike Pump, 43 

A Ride at the Close of Winter, . ... 45 

Devon, Fair Devon, ... . . 46 

Tightened Spokes, ....... 48 

To J , 49 

vii, 



vaii Contents. 

SONGS OF THE SCHUYLKILL RIVER. 

Beautiful Schuylkill, ...... 53 

Cycling by the Schuylkill, ..... 56 

An Autumn Ride up the Wissahickon, ... 58 

On the Schuylkill, ...... 61 

Oar Echoes, ........ 63 

By the River, ....... 66 

Song of the Pennsylvania Bicycle Club, ... 68 

The Last Song, ....... 71 



BENT OARS AND BROKEN SPOKES. 

Bent Oars and Broken Spokes, .... 75 

A Shadow Hope, ...... 77 

Roll On, My Cycle ! 78 

Souvenir, ........ 79 

A River Dream, . . . . . . . 81 

Friendship's Influence, ..... 82 

" Good-bye, Rob," ^Z 

I Cannot Forget, ...... 86 

Memories, . ... . . . • • 87 

Air Wheels, 89 



Contents. ix 

Once Again, . . . . , . . . 91 

To Annie , ...... 92 

Tom Moore's Cottage, ...... 95 

Niagara, ........ 97 

Two Songsters of two Lands, ..... 99 

Song of Italian Sailor on board the Guido, 1S79, • ^°° 
Memory Arches, . . . . . . .102 

Sing ]\Ie a Song, ....... 104 

To Helen , ....... 106 

Query, ......... 108 

Written on the Back of a Birthday Card, . . . 109 

Trifles, ......... no 

There's a Steed whose Hoofs Require no Care, . . in 

The Broken Axle, 112 

My Friend's Baby, 113 

To , . 114 

Westward, Ho! . 116 

An Afternoon Ride, . . . . . . 117 

Adieu, . . . . '. . . . .118 

Friendship, ........ 119 

Recreation, . . . . . . . .120 

Give Me All , 122 

By the Stream, 123 

Your Autograph, Please, ...... 124 

Oar Bend the Last, 125 



X Contents. 

CYCLING BAB BALLADS. 

A Lay of a Race, . . . . . . .129 

Fortune's Like the Bicycle, _ . . . . . 130 

Lancaster Pike, . . . . . . . .131 

A First J8.ide, . . . . . . . 133 

The Lay of a Recreant, 136 

"Le Misanthrope," ...... 138 

The Britisher's Lament, . . . . . .141 

The Britisher's Lament, No. 2, . . . . 145 

Devon Hill, ........ 14S 

T. A. S. (oh's) Lament? ...... 149 

Short Pants and Long Lungs, . . . . .151 

The Devil Take the Bicycle, . . . . 153 

Rhyme the Last, ....... 154 



LAYS OF LANCASTER PIKE. 



TO MY BICYCLE. 

MY bicycle ! my brave old steed ! 
I would not part with thee 
Were all the pleasures life could give 

Flung in its lap for me ; 
I would not give the glorious sense 

Of joy bound in thy wheel, 
For all the vaunted pleasures life 

Could, or could not reveal. 
For where can I so surely find, 

Outside of human kind, 
A friend like thee, who never fails 
To ease this tired mind ? 

13 



14 Lays of Lancaster Fikc. 

I only sought in thee for what 

My other pastimes yield, 
But now, I would not give thee up 

For all in pleasure's field. 

I love the motion of thy rush, 

The cool air coursing free 
Away behind, where vanished scenes 

Have left their smile with me, 
The pulse's throb, the panting breath, 

The lazy, lingering stroll, 
The leaves of nature's book, which oft 

The old dame will unroll ; 
All speak to me in varied tones. 

And tell the same old tale, 
They sing the same sweet song that breaks 

From wood, and height, and vale — 
The same old tale that lives and laughs 

Within the streamlet's flow. 
The same old song that's softly sung 

'Mid trees where breezes blow. 



Lays of Lancaster Pike. 1 5 

They nourish still my dearest wish, 

My wild, untamed desire, 
To revel in a life of which 

The heart could never tire ; 
To ramble where, unfettered with 

The tramm'ling laws of men, 
I find no mark to bid me shun 

Rude height or rocky glen. 
Yes, thou canst bear me swift to where 

In semblance nature still, 
Holds sway o'er scenes that once but knew 

And owned no other will 
Save that, which bade the river run 

As it had run before. 
Save that which threw no steel track down 

Along its level shore. 

My brave old " wheel !" my true old " wheel !" 

Thou'lt bear me oft again, 
'Mid scenes and sounds that own no rule 

Save that of nature's reign ; 



1 6 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 

The cares that will beset our life, 

Born of the strife that brings 
To hearts and hands the semblance but 

Of fortune's gilded rings, 
Are scattered by thy kindly aid, 

Are flung where far behind, 
They vex no more the heart that yields 

Its dearest rights to mind. 
The showy tribute wrung from life 

By eager, grasping hands. 
Is after all but gold foil wrapped 

Round griping iron bands ; 
The shining gleam, the tempting blaze, 

Of glory lingering there, 
Creeps in at last and crushes out 

The life that lives by care. 

Then bear me on, my gallant wheel ; 

No pulse of life may dwell 
Within thy limbs of burnished steel, 

Which serve thy master well ; 



Lays of Lancaster Pike. 17 

But still it seems to me that oft 

An answering thrill from thee, 
Gives back some free-born fancy, drawn 

By nature's touch from me. 
Then bear me on, we leave afar 

The wheel of human strife 
And, listening, hear a voice that whispers, 

Cycler, love thy life. 



AMERICA'S SONG OF THE ''WHEEL." 

CYCLING'S summons is sounding far 
O'er each Commonwealth proud that owns a star, 
In the dark blue ground of the banner grand, 
That flings its folds o'er our fatherland; 

And where'er outflung, unfurled, unrolled, 
That summons leaps from each falling fold. 

From the hardy land of the wild north breeze. 
Where the pine knots blaze and the great lakes freeze. 
To the land where cousins in Southern clime 
Have strung a new spoke in the " wheel " of time, 

Flies the welcome message which makes us feel, 

What a union link is the steed of steel. 

iS 



Lays of Lancaster Pike. 19 

And the new spoke fitted in Southern land 
Is as firm and true as the " New South 's " hand, 
Which has butted that spoke with a Union star, 
That was tempered well in the lap of war. 
What a mighty bond of peace will steal 
O'er the land we love, on the brave old "wheel." 

From the tide that washes the " Empire State," 
To the wave that rolls through the " Golden Gate," 
From Alaska's wilds to the " crescent moon," 
From the Northland's cape to the South's lagoon. 
Flies the wheelman's summons, that near and far. 
Makes a union land 'neath a union star. 

And that union star o'er the cluster grand. 

That in union bound forms the fatherland 

Is progress, one hand on the dome above, 

The other linked on the earth with love ; 

Oh ! the wheel will link in a long bright chain 
The stars which divided misfht shine in vain. 



20 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 

Let this song be sung to the Northern breeze. 
Let its whispers fall among orange trees, 
Breathing ever soft o'er the cyclers' way 
At the breaking forth or the close of day, 

Linking heart to heart, joining hand with hand. 
Let the " wheel " roll on through the fatherland. 



s 



A MORNING RIDE. 

PEED thee well, my bicycle, speed thee well, I say, 
Swiftly thou shalt bear me o'er the traveled way, 
Swiftly by the rambling streams, 
Where we watch the yellow gleams 
Of the wavelets leaping bright 
From dark arches into light. 
Seeking, like the ready mind. 
In the darkness light to find. 



Speed thee well, my bicycle, bear me on, I say, 
Let thy wheel revolving chase thought of care away, 

Every rustling breeze that blows. 

Every breaking beam that glows. 



22 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 

Every form that beauty takes 

From Dame Nature when she wakes, 

Fairy ferns and forest flowers, 

All ! my " wheel," all — all are ours. 

Then away, my bicycle, while I urge thee on, 
Thoughts of other days flash by that have long since 
gone; 
Fondly memory backward trends, 
And I see and hear old friends, 
See them in the shades that play 
Through the leafy curtained way. 
Hear them in the breeze that makes 
Monotones through bushy brakes. 



NIGHT LIGHTS. 

FAR on the winding road, 
Wavering slow, 
What is that flickering, 

Fast flitting glow? 
Stars softly showing. 
Lights shyly glowing, 
Through trees where, blowing, 
Winds whisper low. 

Hark ! on the soft breathing. 

Half broken breeze, 
Tired with blowing through 

Leaf-laden trees. 



23 



24 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 

O'er the woods sleeping, 
Music comes creeping, 
Voices are keeping 
Time to the breeze. 

Out from the sumac shade 

GHde flashing wheels, 
Twining through airy spokes 

Melody steals ; 
Cyclers are singing, 
Wild notes ringing, 
Deep voices flinging up 
Music of wheels. 



THE BREEZE OF BRYN MAWR. 

ONCE as night was closing o'er Bryn Mawr 
And far in the western sky, 
Farther than where the summits 

Of the wild Alleghenies lie, 
And beyond where the mighty Ohio 

Gives the " Father of Waters " her hand, 
The shades of evening had settled 
O'er a silent and sleeping land. 

Eastward a breeze had been traveling — 

Traveling the live-long day — 

Till it found itself blowing through Bryn Mawr, 

And there it resolved to stay ; 

25 



26 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 

For it said, " Though from far I have journeyed, 

O'er city and village and home, 
I find not a place like Bryn Mawr, 
Outstretched 'neath the great blue dome." 

This it whispered the leafy guardians 

Who watch over Bryn Mawr town 
From the heights of the Chester Valley, 

Whose summits their dark shades crown ; 
And they bowed their proud heads with pleasure 

When this tribute the West Wind bore » 
To the charms of the sleeping homesteads 

They were holding their night watch o'er. 

And all that was said in whispers 

To the ears of the drowsy trees. 
Who stayed for a few short moments 

The way of that Western breeze, 
Has been told and retold so often, 

That the fame of this hamlet sweet 
Has crept where the wild East breezes 

Wait that Western breeze to g-reet. 



' Lays of Lancaster Pike. 27 

But at Bryn Mawr this breeze has tarried 

Since then, which was long ago — 
So long that it seems a wonder 

That it long has not ceased to blow. 
But it dwells near the Chester Valley, 

That it may, when the sun goes down, 
Blow a song to the hill of Devon. 

And a whisper through Bryn Mawr town. 



A CYCLING YARN TOLD ON LANCASTER PIKE: 

COME, Charlie, wake up, a song for your "wheel" 
As it lies on the grass, while near it 
We dozen bold cyclers are lounging at ease. 

And waiting and longing to hear it — 
Come, Charlie, wake up, though we haven't a cup 

To drink to your health while you sing it. 
"All right," said old Charlie, "I'll siner; but here, Vic, 
Bring your patent new gong out and ring it. 

***** 

There once was a jolly old "wheel," boys. 
And that jolly old " wheel " was mine — 

What's the matter with you and your gong, Vic ? 
You're the deuce of a fellow for time ; 
28 



Lays of Lancaster Pike. 29 

There now, that will do, keep it up so — 

What I'm going to tell you about 
Is how I and that precious old " wheel " there 

Came precariously near falling out. 

Now here's just the way the thing happened : 

It was only one summer ago 
That I got the — well, the marrying fev^er, 

Which none here have experienced, I know. 
And where do you think that I got it? 

Why, down at the seashore, of course. 
Where with ducking the girls I'd grown nervous, 

And with whisp'ring at hops I'd grown hoarse. 

It was just at the close of the season, 

And friends were all dropping away, 
That I struck up an awful flirtation 

With sweet little Miss Jennie Ray. 
I tell you I went it in earnest. 

And I thought I was gone, boys, for sure, 
In which case I'd have looked like Miss Jennie's 

Blue frock, only fifty times bluer. 



30 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 

Her father was rich as old Croesus, 

That mighty fine hero of old, 
Whose dearest of earth's many pleasures 

Lay in roping in millions of gold; 
So old Ray had his millions of dollars. 

In stocks, bonds, and railroads, and cash, 
And the man who could wed with Miss Jennie 

Would presumably not be termed rash. 

For Jennie was petted and pretty — 

Not proud, though she'd reason to be. 
That is, if money's considered, 

For there she was top-o'-the-tree — 
That's one thing I must allow of her. 

She certainly never was vain. 
Though each dude of "Atlantic" stared at her, 

As he chewed up the end of his cane. 

Well, she nodded to Jones on the porch once. 
Who lay half smothered up in his rug, 

Then she turned to admire just one other 
Brand new importation — a pug. 



Lays of Lancaster Pike. 31 

Then, turning to me, she said sweetly, 

In tones pitched too highly, I fear, 
" I think that the wildest creations 

From England now come over here." 

Then said I to myself, " Mr. Charlie, 

Miss Jennie is wondrously fair, 
And of sense she possesses a trifle, 

Though her father's a fat millionaire." 
And that's how it all came about, boys. 

And we started in earnest at once, 
And bicycler Charlie cut out, boys, 

Atlantic's sweet dudes for the nonce. 

And we walked and we talked and we flirted, 

Most outrageously, openly bold. 
And that wretched dude Jones, with most studied 

Contempt, was left out in the cold ; 
And things were all sliding on smoothly, 

Hearts getting quite hot, I could feel, 
When the whole blessed business was busted 

By that deucedly unlucky " wheel." 



32 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 

You see, here is how the thing happened : 

I was speeding along one dark night, 
After leaving the radiance behind me 

Of Jennie's sweet eyes smihng bright; 
And it must have been from the contrast 

Of changing their Hght for the dark. 
That I came in colhsion with some one 

And ripped up our mutual bark — 

Ripped up our bark, you may say so. 

In a double sense, too, you can bet. 
For the chap I ran down seemed determined 

To swear himself into a sweat ; 
And I, you may certainly reckon, 

Felt as riled as himself at the mess, 
And since he seemed disposed to talk Latin, 

I, too, felt like talking, I guess. 

So a mutual roar of expletives 

Was wafted aloft on the air, 
And I was a " d — d public nuisance," 

And he was a "crusty old bear;" 



Lays of Lancaster Pike. 33 

And I'd be " consigned to old Pluto," 

And he'd " go to heaven the wrong way," 

When, " great Scott !" a gas lamp shone on him, 
And revealed to me old Johnny Ray. 

You just bet I caved, and I mounted, 

And " by George !" you'd have sworn that " old Nick " 
Was traveling hard on my hind wheel 

With his toe gathered up for a kick ; 
For I left the old gent in the roadway, 

Swearing hotly, " You d — d Charlie C , 

Come back ;" but I sloped, for I knew, boys, 

'Twas all up between Jennie and me. 

So it was, for next morning quite early 

There came such a sweet little note. 
Which told me that I and Miss Jennie 

Could never form crew of one boat ; 
And I tell you I felt for a short while 

As I never once more want to feel. 
And I vowed on the spur of the moment 

That I'd wreck that confounded old " wheel."' 



34 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 

But I didn't, and there she stands yonder, 

And, boys, my advice to you now 
Is, before you join hands with the daughter, 

With the dad have a scriptural row ; 
And then, if the girl's worth the having, 

She'll make the old gentleman keel, 
And if not, why, your best plan of action 

Is right about face, and then wheel. 



A SONG OF LANCASTER PIKE. 

O'ER Lancaster's level, 
O'er Lancaster's grade, 
Up hill and down hill. 

By coppice and glade, 
By woods whence the light 

Of the recreant day, 
Long hours ago 

Melted slowly away : 

Cycle, O cycle ! 

Come bear me along, 
To where in sweet Bryn Mawr 



A bird sings a song. 



35 



^6 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 

Let Lancaster's level 

Fall fading behind, 
Let Lancaster's grade 

Call no fears to the mind ; 
By house and by hamlet, 

By village and town, 
With a rush we go up, 

But again to rush down. 

So, cycle, my cycle. 
Come bear me along, 

Ere night shadows sadden 
A fair maiden's song. 



Old Lancaster's level 
Flies fast to the rear. 

Old Lancaster's grade 
Gives us never a care. 

While each Lancaster maiden, 
As past her we fly, 



Lays of Lancaster Pike. 37 

Throws a glance of surprise 
At the form flitting by : 

But cycle, O cycle ! 

Let the maidens alone, 
For we have in Bryn Mawr 

A sweet maid of our own. 



ON THE ROAD. 

AWAY we go on our wheels, boys, 
As free as the roving breeze, 
And over our pathway steals, boys, 

The music of wind-swept trees ; 
And round by the woods and over the hill 

Where the ground so gently swells, 
From a thousand throats in echoing notes 
The songster melody wells. 

Along we speed o'er the road, boys — 

The road that we love so well ; 
Those oaks know the whir of our wheels, boys, 

And they welcome the cycler's bell ; 

38 



Lays of Lancaster Pike. 39 

And down in the hollow the streamlet flows 

In rollicking humor along, 
While flinging its wavelets' cadence up 

To challenge the cyclers' song. 

Above us we feel in the air, boys, 

A spirit that's kin with ours — 
A spirit that gives to our life, boys, 

The brightest of earth's best flowers ; 
For the health and the strength that are beauty's own, 

That are stamped with nature's seal, 
Are securely bound and circled round 

In the spokes of the flying " wheel." 



BRYN MAWR TOWN. 

ONE night I went a-riding, 
A-riding, a-riding, 
Dimly shone the stars where the clouds 
Were drifting high ; 
And deep among the trees 
The trembling summer breeze 
Swung the branches into music songs 
Which sang good-bye, 

By-and-by I came a-riding, 

A-riding, a-riding, 

Riding down the roadway right into 

Bryn Mawr town, 

40 



Ljxys of Lancaster Pike. 41 

Where welcome gleams of light 
Shone from many a window bright; 
And stooping in the saddle 'neath 
The branches bending down, 
I seemed to hear an echo sonef 
Which sang " good-night." 

Shortly after I went riding, 

A-riding, a-riding, 

While a handkerchief flew wavinsr from 

A window-casement high ; 

But the breeze was fast increasing, 

And now, blowing without ceasing, 

It swept away a gentle song 

Which sang "good-bye." 



Then I went a-riding, 
A-riding, a-riding, 
Riding right away from 
Pleasant Bryn Mawr town; 



42 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 

Looking back I saw her light 
Streaming from the casement height, 
And bending where the branches 
Brushed my helmet, drooping down, 
The v/histling wind swept back my song, 
" Good-night, good-night." 



THE PIKE PUMP. 

HERE once again, our journey completed, 
I and my wheel feel like taking a rest, 
Thirty miles ridden and three toll-men cheated. 

That's a record I'll chalk down as one of my best. 
" Health to my wheel " I pledge, and I drink it. 

While she stands on her head by yon hickory stump. 
Health to a " wheel !" Odd toast you may think it. 
Odder still, as the nectar's derived from a pump. 

Odd though it be, I pledge and I mean it, 

And non-cycling readers may laugh as they please. 
Perhaps they'd laugh more at my "wheel" had they 
seen it 
As it stood on its head 'neath those hickory trees — 

43 



44 Lays of Lancaster Pike. 

Stood on its head, for certain it did, sir, 
After taking an awfully buck-boardy jump, 

While I, with the thwack of an auction's last bid, sir, 
Descending, brought mine on the head of the pump. 

Thirty miles ridden and three toll-men cheated, 

A machine on its head with its wheels in the air, 
A pair of new breeches which must be reseated — 

This last was a thought which impelled me to swear, 
A log in the roadway, a dent in the gravel. 

And a head boasting one superfluous bump, 
A hole in a cap, and, without doubt or cavil, 

A decided imprint on the head of a pump. 



A RIDE AT THE CLOSE OF WINTER. 



THUS, thus do I leap to the saddle and fly, 
While the woods wave their arms where the 
spring grasses lie ; 
E'er enrobing once more in the harmony guise, 
In which nature, enveloping, smothers their sighs. 
Granting to them instead the soft whispers that fling 
Breathings soft as the velvet born leaves of the spring. 

Yes ! thus once again will my " wheel " bear me on. 
Each pedal-push bids some dull trouble begone ; 
Each turn of the wheel to each draw on the bar 
Throws a thrill of delight that will leave lying far 
In the distance behind, as in life that's gone by, 
What remembering we fain would, forgetting, let die. 

45 



DEVON, FAIR DEVON. 

COME, cycle ! we'll wander together away 
As free as the airy pressure 
Of the unseen hand that boldly plays 

Through the woodland's leafy treasure. 
We'll roam where, far in the western sky, 

There are signs that the veil of even 
Has, creeping far from the city's side, 

Dropped down its dark shade o'er Devon. 
O Devon I fair Devon ! 
Shadows may close over Devon, 
But there's light in an eye 
That's as deep as the sky 
When it smiles its brightest o'er Devon 
46 



Lays of Lancaster Pike. 47 

Come, cycle ! old Lancaster's arm is outstretched 

To the West, and its trees are bending 
Their branches, to shield us from tribute which 

The lowlands unasked are sending. 
So forward, on ! by each hill and dale, 

For at present our earthly heaven 
Lies far away, where the brave old pike 
Takes a turn round the hill of Devon. 
O Devon ! fair Devon ! 
Dull grows the sky over Devon, 
But there's light in an eye 
That is black as the sky 
On the darkest of nights at Devon. 



TIGHTENED SPOKES. 

IN my "wheel" there's a spoke that never loosens, 
In the handle a bar that never bends, 
And so tried and true are these faithful servants 
That they hold in my heart the place of friends. 

There are spokes in the wheel of time that tighten, 
That yield not their hold as the years roll by ; 

They are mostly thoughts that are linked with the love 
Of the friends who now are no longer nigh. 



48 



TO J- 



, well I know that nothing 

I have written here you'll miss ; 

Therefore, e'er you lift another 

Leaf, just waste a thought on Chris. 



49 



SONGS OF THE SCHUYLKILL RIVER. 



BEAUTIFUL SCHUYLKILL.* 

BEAUTIFUL Schuylkill, 
Pride of our Park, 
River, thou'rt noble still 

As when the bark 
Of the red Indian, 

Warrior brave, 
Swept its wild master 
Over thy wave. 

Beautiful Schuylkill, 
Said he, with pride. 

As he swept over 

Thy tree-shaded tide : 



In Fairmount Park." 

53 



54 Songs of the Schuylkill River. 

" O'er this, my country — 
My fatherland — 
Dares the invader 

Stretch his false hand?" 



Beautiful Schuylkill, 

Beautiful still — 
Rocky glen, foaming stream, 

Forest, and hill ; 
Rivulet, streamlet, 

Steal to thy side. 
As to her lover's arms 

Nestles the bride. 

Beautiful Schuylkill, 
O'er thee we throw 

Shadows that nature 
Never lets grow ; 

Yet thy fair features 
Of forest and hill, 



SoTigs of the Schuylkill River. 55 

All — picture river, 
Are beautiful still. 

Beautiful Schuylkill, 

Time steals from thee 
Less than it ever 

Can wrestle from me ; 
Winter and summer, 

Autumn and spring, 
O'er thy broad bosom 

Fresh beauties flingf. 

Beautiful Schuylkill, 

Time will soon steal 
One who has loved thee. 

One who could feel 
Nature's own hand 

Stretched forth ere she died, 
Where man's creations 

Marred thy bright tide. 



CYCLING BY THE SCHUYLKILL. 

CYCLING in the even' 
When the sun sinks low, 
Cycling through the twilight 
While the shadows grow, 
Cycling on in starlight 
Underneath the glow, 
That falling finds a home 
In Schuylkill's silent flow. 

Tell me not that tribute 
From the heart, can find. 

Naught to fi-ame in words 
But what, was lefi: behind, 



56 



Songs of the ScJmylkill River. $7 

By dwellers with and lovers of 

Old Nature kind, 
Whose every virtue by-gone hearts 

And pens, have lined. 

No, tell me not that nothing new 

Fair Nature gives. 
Say not that nothing new 

In thought, or fancy lives — 
Lives not to greet the soul 

That has, for beauty eyes, 
Lives not to furnish yet 

The fire, that never dies. 



AN AUTUMN RIDE UP THE WISSAHICKON. 

SEASON of the sun-browned leaf 
Merging into golden hues, 
Where the oak and maple meet 
And their leafy harvest fuse; 
Shadow-guarded, up the glen. 

See ! fair Wissahickon's flow. 
Bears away the tribute which 
Oak and maple fling below. 

Season of a great farewell. 

Spoken low in accents soft. 
Whispered by each leaf that falls 
From the curtain arched aloft; 
58 



Songs of the ScJwylkill River. 59 

Stretching o'er us as we ride, 

Oak and maple arches bright, 
Sun-browned, merging into gold, 

From our path close out the light. 

Timid toned and very soft, 

Lightly tuned and very low. 
Soft-breathed songs from sunless streams. 

Trickling where the fern leaves grow, 
Greet our ear, and whisper where, 

Hidden by the frondine shade. 
Wandering waters seek a home 

Through the path their songs have made. 

Gushing, gasping o'er the stones. 

Gurgling round the green-lipped rocks, 
Ruder song from rougher streams, 

Surly toned, the quiet mocks — 
Surly toned and angry waved. 

White lipped, black browed, bubble crowned, 
Wilder streams with wayward will 

Fling their harsher cadence round. 



6o Songs of the Schuylkill River. 

Through the shadow up the glen, 

Where the sunlight's slanting ray 
Rarely seeks to share the scene, 

With the rambling breezes play, 
Ride we when the evening hour 

Falls o'er Wissahickon's stream, 
Losing Schuylkill far behind 

In a sun-browned golden dream. 



ON THE SCHUYLKILL. 

SCHUYLKILL River, 
From thy quiver 
Launch the trembling shafts of light ; 
Let thy waves fling, flashing upward, 
Kisses caught from moonbeams bright ; 
Noble river. 
Gentle river, 
How I love thy face at night. 

As thus rowing, 

O'er thee flowing, 

Swift I love to stem thy stream, 

How the oars ever onward 



6i 



62 Songs of the Schuylkill River. 

Seem to throw, in fancy's dream. 

Fairy flashes. 

Where their splashes, 

Mingle with the moon's soft beam. 

Gently flowing. 

Nobly glowing. 

While yon streak of silver grows, 

Narrowed down to where the curvinsf 

Banks their shadows interpose ; 

Lazy breaking, 

Waves half waking. 

Backward far our track inclose. 

Sleeping never. 

Dreaming ever, 

Yet not waking fully free. 

Thy old waters have a charming 

And half mystic claim to be 

Ever giving, 

And then living 

In the thoughts they give to me. 



OAR ECHOES. 

TOGETHER, lads, steady, 
The swing of the rowlock 
Has wakened the ripples 
That sleeping lay still ; 
And the dip of our oars 
Has disturbed the clear image 
Flung o'er the waters 
From Strawberry Hill. 

As the spray falls behind us 
Fly the fetters that bind us 
To the fast fading city 
We've left far behind ; 



63 



64 Songs of the Schuylkill River. 

There ! our bold strokes have broken 
The last lingering token, 
That might bind us to where 
Life's at best but unkind. 

Together, lads, steady. 

Let the unity motto 

That pilots our fatherland's 

Fortunes be ours ; 

For there's far-reaching wisdom 

In the words which are spoken 

When the buds of experience 

Break forth into flowers. 

Through the spray flitting by us, 
Through the dusk creeping nigh us, 
Through the cloud which yon moon 
Has but now silver-lined ; 
We can read the old story 
Which tells how life's glory 
Lies in harmonized union 
Of body and mind. 



Songs of the Schuylkill River. 65 

Then together, lads, steady, 
The breath of the summer 
Is dying o'er woods 
That are losing their sheen ; 
As we bend to our work 
Let us value the moments, 
Which fortune flings kindly 
Life's labors between. 

For if life is worth living, 

'Tis when summer is giving 

The fruits of a spring 

That can never return ; 

And the thistledown straying, 

Through the wind o'er us playing, 

Leaves behind it a lesson 

The oldest may learn. 



BY THE RIVER. 

THE soft wind is pressing 
The breast of the stream, 
Where the waves are caressing 

The moon's fickle beam; 
As slowly I'm riding 

Where willow shades creep, 
Keeping watch over waters 
That wake not from sleep. 

As slowly I wander 

On swift noiseless wheel, 

Of these haunts I grow fonder 
Through friendship's broad seal ; 
66 



Songs of the Schuylkill River. 6j 

And footsteps and faces 

Of comrades and friends, 
Fancy oftentimes traces 

Where the willow tree bends. 

The breeze has ceased blowine. 

From whence did it come ? 
But the stream is still flowing 

Away to its home ; 
And I hear the soft whispers 

Of friends vanished long, 
In the ripples that singing 

Get lost in their song. 



SONG OF THE PENNSYLVANIA BICYCLE CLUB. 

GATHER, Pennsylvania, 
Hark the bugle call, 
Hear the dropping echoes 

Round us faintly fall ; 
Mounting, speed we onward 
While the shadows dark. 
Close in curtained silence 
Over Fairmount Park. 

Fairmount's shadows deepen 

As we speed along. 

Hark from off the river 

Breaks the boatman's song, 
68 



Songs of the Schuylkill River. 69 

And the mule bells music 

Down the river track, 
Draws from many a " Challis"* 

Answering tinkles back. 

Starry world above us 

Looking down below, 
See you not our starlight 

Glancing back your glow ; 
Through the spokes reflecting 

Red and green so bright. 
See our stars are winking 

Back your watchful light. 

Beauty in the night time 

As there is in day. 
Softer shines the starlight 

Than the orb of day; 
Softer winds seem blowing, 

Softer breezes creep, 

*" Challis Stop BeH." 



JO Songs of the Schuylkill River. 

When they find old nature 
Nodding off to sleep. 

Softly, Pennsylvania, 

Softly ride and slow, 
Noiseless as the mid-stream 

Of yon waters flow ; 
Now move fast, and faster, 

Yet our swift steeds make, 
Sounds less than the ripples 

On those banks that break. 

Faster, Pennsylvania, 

Let the bugles ring, 
While the echoing hillsides 

Back the wild notes fling. 
River song and ripple 

Greet us as we glide. 
Near where stars are dipping 

Deep in Schuylkill's tide. 



THE LAST SONG. 



, though old Schuylkill's praises, 

Roughly chanted thus by Chris 
You'll forget, yet still the singer's 
Mem'ry you will not dismiss. 



71 



BENT OARS AND BROKEN SPOKES. 

BENT AND BROKEN ON BOTH SIDES QF THE ATLANTIC. 



BENT OARS AND BROKEN SPOKES. 

BENT oars and broken spokes, 
How often have I seen them, 
How often found a lesson of 

Our life bent in between them ; 
The rose between two thorns will grow, 

Will even learn to love them, 
The lesson learned from broken hopes 
Will raise us oft above them. 

Bent oars and broken spokes, 
We lay them down with sorrow, 

And seek in something fresh to find 
What we can beg or borrow ; 



75 



^5 Bent Oars and Broken Spokes, 

We beg the health we cannot buy 
From every breeze that, blowing, 

Renerves the friction Time's old hand 
Is never tired of slowing. 

Bent oars and broken spokes, 

Who wants of them to borrow — 
Who looks for that which lies but where 

To-morrow meets to-morrow. 
We seek to find in memory's arms 

Friends once our best and dearest. 
While greeting still the haze that time 

Throws round what once was nearest. 

Bent oars and broken spokes. 

Of thought and word and action, 
Each twisted thread that twines through life 

Must lose its last attraction. 
The oar that's bent, the twisted spoke, 

The nature warped or broken. 
Each flung along life's shore lies there, 

Of life a rusted token. 



A SHADOW HOPE. 

IN the clasp of the hand that is cHnglng in silence, 
In the light of the eye that is lost ere its lash, 
Like the lightning's cloud curtain creeps over the heaven 
From whose bosom 'twould seem the bright energies 
flash ; 
Dwells assurance which bids me hope on though the 
hoping, 
May live like the cloud that is fated to be. 
Swept afar from its friends by that fate which the future 
May fling round this heart that feels love but for thee. 
Yes, that clasp tells me more than the thought flashes 
leaping, 
From the eye that reluctant is forced to reveal. 

77 



78 Beiit Oars and Broken Spokes. 

The slumbering power of the passion that proves how 
The heart fails to hold all it ever can feel ; 

I dare not say more, I shall never, can never, 
Feel love for another that as equal with thee, 

Will live on in this heart which though never forgetting 
The past, will forgive you what yet has to be. 



ROLL on, my Cycle ! Life is what 
Its children choose to make it; 
And pleasure comes to all alike 
Who reach a hand to take it. 



SOUVENIR. 

CYCLE! Cycle! trusty Cycle! 
How I dearly love thee, 
Flashing, glancing out as bright 

As any star above me ; 
Far away, and farther, farther, 

You will bear me fast, 
Till receding Boston's turmoil 
Dies away at last. 

Cycle ! Cycle ! my own Cycle ! 

You and I are flying 
Faster than those city echoes 

Far behind us dying ; 



79 



8o Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 

Then away and over hillside, 

Climbing like a feather, 
Or, as lightning rushing downward, 

Ride we on together. 

Cycle! Cycle! we have wandered 

Many a mile together, 
We have tasted summer sunshine, 

Storm and winter weather, 
And I think as through the starlight 

Slowly now we glide. 
Through our spokes north winds have whistled. 

Western winds have sighed. 
Now where Boston's breeze is blowing, 

England's breezes died. 



A RIVER DREAM. 

LET the oar rest ere again it revels 
In the breast of the stream that in darkness hes, 
A type of the thought that remains unspoken 

In the liquid depths of that sweet girl's eyes ; 
Her hand droops down where the wavelet's ripple 

Creeps up to caress what I fain would hold, 
But I never can, for the wave's soft lapping 
Scarce hides on one finger a band of gold. 

Let the oar strike on the sleeping water, 

Let the eyelash cover the tell-tale light, 
Which I feel creeps up with unbidden fervor 

From a fire that burns with a flame too bright ; 
Let the oar bend, let the thought bend with it, 

Let it, bending, break through that passing wave ; 
Let the thought break through a brief dream that dying, 

Can forever keep what it never gave. 



FRIENDSHIP'S INFLUENCE. 

TELL me what tributes of friendship 
Are cherished the closest by you, 
Tell me what virtues stand highest 

In thine eyes, be they many or few; 
For be they as many and royal 

As man ever held or can hold, 
It shall be my life's labor to win them, 
They shall be to me silver and gold. 

Knowledge may kneel to the simple, 

May seek him while being unsought, 
Honor may come to the careless. 

Both may in a measure be bought ; 
But virtue asks never a master, 

Though vice may seek many a slave. 
Yet she answers when called, as the bravest 

May often be led by the brave. 

82 



"GOOD-BYE, ROB." 

A LAY OF A LONDON HOSPITAL. 

1MISS them, Rob, I miss them, 
Those fields of sunny green; 
The two soft, mossy, shelving banks 
And the running stream between ; 
I see no more the wind-wave sweep 

Across the fields of grain, 
And the summer breeze 'mid summer trees, 
I will never hear again. 

I see them not, I hear them not. 
Those old time friends of mine, 

Who sang to me, as I to them. 
Full oft and many a time ; 

83 



84 Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 

For, went I fast, or went I far, 
On horseback, foot, or "wheel," 

The cadence fresh from feathered throats 
Would o'er my pathway steal. 

I see no more the springing flowers, 

Which I have marked so oft. 
Wake to new life, when summer blew 

Her whispering breezes soft ; 
I hear no more, through whirling spokes, 

Those soft winds swiftly play ; 
Far as they now are from me, soon 

They'll farther be away. 

Reach me your hand, old friend, and let 

Me say good-bye once more; 
I'm riding now, it seems to me, 

Along a misty shore ; 
It's growing narrow, shelving down ; 

Rob ! bring your lantern near, 
Rob — say, Rob — when you ride this road, 

Keep your flame burning clear. 



Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 85 

It's very dark, yes! and it's cold, 

It's growing cold I feel ; 
I seem to grasp these handles hard. 

They hold like frozen steel. 
Ha ! Rob, crtd man, I see the light, 

It's burning bright and clear ; 
Your hand, old friend, we'll meet again 

On a better road than's here. 



I CANNOT FORGET. 

YOU tell me the day and the hour has gone by 
When that hand and that heart could convey one 
reply, 
To the story of love from a heart like to thine, 
Which you say never was and can never be mine. 
Yet I say, though I cannot, can never tell wh}', 
Life lives but for me in a glance from thine eye. 

The heart that has known what the lips fail to tell 
Can never while mem'ry remains say farewell. 
The hand that has labored to gain and then lost 
Its reward, may forget what that labor once cost. 

But remembrance of that which was loved will live 

on 
In the face of the fate which forbade its being won. 
86 



MEMORIES. 

WHEN my " wheel's" at rest and my oar is sleeping, 
The measured pause of the pulse will tell, 
That the minute strokes of thought are turning 
The windlass handle o'er memory's well. 

And the lever turns with a slow, slow motion, 

And deep through the gloom the chain drops down ; 

And the hand grows tired, and the heart grows weary 
Ere the kiss of the waters its mission crown. 

Or it turns and turns, as the grasp of the guiding, 

Controlling hand that at first laid hold 
Is removed, till the rush of the falling vessel 

Is checked by the clasp of the waters cold. 

87 



88 Be7it Oars and Broken Spokes. 

And whether I turn with a slow, slow motion, 
Or whether I let the thought links run 

As they will, I still hear the same old cadence 
Come stealing up when the goal is won. 

And the refrain sang by the chain links chafing 
And fretting sore, o'er their roller bed, 

Brings home to my heart a harvest gleaning 
Of joy and sorrow which I thought lay dead. 



AIR WHEELS. 

SOFT and still, valley and hill, 
Melt in the evening shadow, 
Away behind the western wind 

Creeps across the meadow; 
We'll leave it far behind, boys, 

The roads are smooth and fair, 
O'er hill and hollow the breeze may follow. 
Follow, follow — air. 

Far away, breaking its way 

Out from its tunnel quiver, 

The railroad steed with arrowy speed 

Sweeps by the quiet river; 

89 



90 Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 

It leaves us far behind, boys, 

We straggle away in the rear, 
Let it go! let it go! to beat it, you know, 

Our steeds should be made of — air. 

Loud then soft, struggling aloft. 

Over the trees and bushes, 
The silver notes of the bugle float 

Then fall among river rushes ; 
That means we're near our goal, boys. 

And friends are waiting there, 
Press hard on your wheel, how the wind and the 
steel 

Make a rushing of air through air. 



ONCE AGAIN. 

ROUSE thee, my " wheel !" for the winter has wended 
Its way to the bourne whence no traveler returns ; 
The first breeze of spring with its last breeze has blended, 
And sung the " Amen " which each season it learns. 

Rouse thee, my "wheel!" for the sunlight has beckoned, 
From where the red orb rises over yon hill ; 

Rising earlier still as each morning re-wakens 

Its watch which through winter woke cloudy and still. 

Rouse thee, my " wheel !" for the notes of the song birds 
Come wafted across from the fresh budding trees. 

And the swell of their cadence makes melody snatches 
Of music, which even friend Orpheus might please. 

Rouse thee, my " wheel !" for the hues that have mantled 
The light lying clouds of the morning must find 

In the cheek of thy master tints such as shall rival 
The flush on their own which the sun god has lined. 

91 



TO ANNIE 



SITTING idly in your chair, 
Sitting idly fretting, 
Lost to friendship's fond rebuke, 
Life and love forgetting ; 
Annie, tell me why so sad 
When all else on earth is glad. 

Can the path of life be rough 

To so fair a creature, 
Can the world to thee be aught 

But a gentle teacher? 

Annie, dearest, tell me why 

Sadness should not pass thee by. 
92 



Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 93 

Living in the lap of ease, 

Friends flung freely round thee, 
Sorrow's hand should surely be 
Withered e'er it found thee ; 

Why does sadness dwell with thee 
Let it choose its friend in me. 



Then the case is as I thought. 

This is then the reason, 
This is why thy face so fair 
To thy heart plays treason ; 
Fairest face will soonest show 
What sleeps in the heart below. 

Years ago I told thee how 

Brave hearts would be broken, 
By your words which oft had been 
Better left unspoken ; 

Hearts were given men to be 

More than playthings meant for thee. 



94 Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 

Yes! I thought so! — now at last! 

— And you really loved him, 
Idle words in cruel jest 

Now have far removed him ; 
Annie, dearest, bear in mind 
Life is love, and love is kind. 



TOM MOORE'S COTTAGE. 

AT THE " MEETING OF THE WATERS," IRELAND. 

THROUGH the depth of the valley the sunlight 
Was streaming in lingering love, 
As if loath to be leaving a landscape 

That must have dropped down from above; 
A landscape where lost in day dreaming, 

All nature seems eager to pour 
In the rightly tuned ear of the stranger 
The song which she sang to Tom Moore. 

We flung our machines 'neath the shadow 

Of the lord of the forest who hung 
Its far-reaching form o'er the cottage 

Where the choicest of songs once were sung; 

95 



q6 Bent Oars and Byoke?i Spokes. 

And we wondered what stories its branches 
Could tell if they only knew how, 

— Then we gazed on the quaint old-time cottage 
And thought on the then and the now. 

And we hung o'er the rock-fettered water, 

And we harked to the sighing of wind 
Through the giant-like limbs of the elms 

Which the close-clinging ivy entwined ; 
And we gazed on the waves that had wakened 

The silver-tuned lyre of Tom Moore. 
Where for us they were meeting and mingling 

As they met for the minstrel of yore. 



NIAGARA. 

A MEMORY OF THE L. A. W. MEET, 1885. 

NIAGARA! Niagara! 
The voice of thy waters 
Hoarsely confiding their story to me ; 
Here as I ride round 
The shore of this island 

Echoes thy voice like a song from the sea, 
Years, many years, have rolled by since I listened 
To that cadence recalled by the song sung by thee. 

Oft have I ridden when breakers were rolling 
High o'er the rocks that with iron band 

Circle the shore of the country where fortune 
Flung me afar from my own western land. 

97 



98 Bc7it Oars and Broken Spokes. 

Niagara ! Niagara ! 

I have dreamed that I heard thee, 

In dreams have I gazed on thy wild rushing leap. 
In dreams have I wondered if while I was absent 

The thunder riven song of thy waters would sleep. 

And now I have heard thee, 
Have heard thee and seen thee : 

I have listened in silence as slowly I rode 
O'er the pilgrimage pathway that winds round this 
island 

By which through the ages thy eddies have flowed. 
I have waited and watched for the moment when 
voicing 

The hope of long years and the dream of a life, 
I should look on the rush and the roar of thy rapids, 

And list to the song of thy rock fretted strife. 



TWO SONGSTERS OF TWO LANDS. 

SINGER sweet of many songs, 
Whose unwritten sweetness 
Gives to thee our song-land realm 

In its full completeness ; 
Pen or pencil fail to tell 
All thy tuneful graces, 
Yet, there's one sweet song which yields 
Not to thine embraces. 

Singer sweet of England's shore. 

Whose delight is flinging 
Wild notes to the night that lives. 

But to hear thy singing ; 
Singer sweet, thy song to me 

Soars beyond each measure. 
Which our mocker flings so free 

At his fickle pleasure. 

99 



SONG OF ITALIAN SAILOR ON BOARD THE 
GUIDO, 1879. 

HO ! for the blire Tyrhennian Sea, 
Ho ! for my own sweet Italy, 
Man the crew by the capstan bar. 
Furl the sail on each trembling spar. 
Hark to the strain that breaks afar, 
Music of Italy. 

Sweet as the song that breathes of heaven, 
Singing of love on the air of even, 
Light as the foam and soft as the sigh 
Of the waves on thy shore, O Italy ! 



Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. loi 

Then man the crew by the capstan bar, 
Furl the sail on each trembling spar, 
Hark to the strain that breaks afar, 
Music of Italy. 

Music of music the wide world o'er, 
Greets my ear from my native shore. 
Stealing aloft to the dreamy sky. 
That smiles o'er my own sweet Italy. 
Then man the crew by the capstan bar, 
Furl the sail on each trembling spar. 
Wake ! wake ! again, my old guitar 
To music of Italy, 



MEMORY ARCHES. 

I BELIEVE it is true, I have heard it said often 
That love cannot live when it once has grown cold ; 
And that life worth the living coins memory arches, 
Whose keystones are thoughts which can never be 
told. 

I've heard thee say often, should the world presume 
coldly 
To trample on feelings it never could know ; 
That the knowledge would cheer thee that the truth 
could be only 
Revealed to this heart whence like sentiments flow. 



Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 103 

The world will grow older, the world will grow wiser, 
It will widen, and broaden, and burst its old bands ; 
It will sweep from their niches and will never restore 
them, 
Works which once were the triumphs of hearts and 
of hands. 

But deep in their dwelling, which far back through the 
ages, 

And on through the arch of eternity's span; 
Were ever — will ever be the thoughts which unspoken, 

Yet fashion the life worth the living by man. 



SING ME A SONG. 

THE night to the morning 
Once sullenly said, 
" Why risest so soon 

From thy orient bed; 
Cannot I with the wealth 

Of a star lighted sky, 
Give to earth all the light 
That owes life to thine eye ?' 

Said the morn to the night, 
"Farewell, my dark maid. 

The earth has been loved 
Long enough by thy shade; 
104 



Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 105 

The love of a night 

May be lost in a day, 
But the love born of light 

Will live on for alway." 

The tenderest tribute 

The heart can e'er give, 
If we wish that it blossom, 

And blossoming live, 
Must bear not alone 

Look of star searching eye, 
But must stand the bright test 

Of the sun lighted sky. 



TO HELEN 



AND she is dead 
Whom I remember, 
Kind were her words 

As her heart was tender ; 
Loving as light 

Which distinction knows not, 
Sweet as the flower 

That the florist sows not. 

Tell it again, 

For I now may never 
Look on the face 
That has left forever 
1 06 



Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 107 

Haunts that were happy 

When hearts beat lightest, 
Scenes whose soft beauty 

On her smiled brightest. 

That is enough, 

Braving all danger. 
In a strange land 

Dying a stranger. 
Lady, thy lot 

Was a strong man's measure, 
Earth loses what 

Heaven gains — a treasure. 



QUERY. 

HEART of woman, head of man, 
Read them right who will and can ; 
Life-long study to the wise, 
Half of which the cynic flies, 
Which can win and which can wear ? 
Gems which each should guard with care. 

Which can win and which can wear? 

Which can from the other tear ? 

All that's cast in beauty's mold, 

All that lives and dies for gold, 

Head hurls with unerring hand, 

Darts, the heart cannot withstand. 

io8 



Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 109 

Heart of woman, head of man, 
Covers which the widest span ? 
Captures which the surest prize? 
Watchest which with subtlest eyes ? 
Hearts will break, where heads will bend, 
Live man's hopes, where woman's end. 



WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF A BIRTHDAY 

CARD. 

SEE the wash of the waters that roll o'er our life 
Sweep over one barrier more, 
One rock in the rampart now yields mid the strife 
Cut deep in the next on the shore. 



TRIFLES. 

HIS was a faded blossom, 
Dropping its soft slight head, 
Close to a pale leaf lying 
Over some petals dead. 

Hers was a memory blossom. 
Blooming again once more; 

Born of a wave of music 
Blowing along the shore. 

His was a fair face smiling 

Over the flower again ; 
Hers was a deep voice singing 

Words of a magic strain. 
no 



Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. in 

But soon the fading flower 

Lay with the lifeless leaf, 
And the memory wave of music 

In a sea wave lost its grief. 



THERE'S a steed whose hoofs require no care 
From the worker 'neath spreading chestnut trees, 
There's a ship that safer its freight will bear 

Than the famous sailer of silent seas ; 
There's a bird that soars through the trembling air 

With surer flight than the one that flees 
From the hawk's fell swoop, and the 'cycle fair 
Has coaxed from my pen such lines as these. 



THE BROKEN AXLE. 

NO light can enlighten 
The heart that is broken, 
No hope can re-waken 

The soul that is dead ; 
And the lips do not speak 

Words that by the looks spoken 
Reveal all and more 
Than can ever be said. 

There's light on the hillside, 

And shade in the valley, 
There's a smile in the river 

As there's death if you choose ; 
So there's light on the forehead 

Though the heart holds a shadow 
Which though mourning, it still 

Will reluctlantly lose. 



MY FRIENDS BABY. 

BABY Leoni, so curly and coaxing, 
The light of thine eye and the lisp of thy tongue 
Have led me to think of the moments when like thee 
I recked not of blessings born but for the young. 
But, Leoni, my darling, the time's creeping on 
When that light will be dimmed, and that lisp will 
be gone. 

May the heav'n that smiles on thee now at thy waking, 

Cast round thee the guardianship folds of a love, 
Which a tear from thine eye, or a sigh from thy bosom, 
Would demand from the eyes we trust watch from 
above. 
O Leoni, Leoni, may life for thee find 
Not a sorrow to leave e'en a shadow behind, 

113 



TO . 

TELL me not of them, 
The days are gone by, 
When glances fell soft 

From thy dark shaded eye ; 
That day has departed 

When fate could not find 
On thy forehead a frown 
That in earnest was lined. 

Tell me not of them, 

The words which you said, 
Their music soon melted 

Into echoes now dead ; 



114 



Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 115 

And never, O never 

Can sympathy steal 
One sigh for the sorrow 

Which you dare not reveal. 

Tell me not of them, 

The songs which you sang, 
I shall spurn the last tones 

From my heart where they hang 
Like the last leaves of autumn, 

Which lingering cling, 
To the branch that forgetting, 

Hopes not for the spring. 



WESTWARD, HO! 



THE red sun is sinking and flinging to me 
Strange shadows from over the storm-beaten sea, 
As the last gleams of light strike the swaying cross-tree. 
Whence I gaze on the wild scud flying. 

Behind us the shadows creep after our bark, 
The daylight of Eastern skies dies into dark, 
There ! a wave of wind-music comes sweeping, and hark ! 
It sets our slack cordage sighing. 

The red sun has sunk out of sight, and the spray 

Dashes wild o'er our bows as we drive on our way. 

Striving madly it seems — as we strive — day by day, 

To capture the sunlight dying. 
ii6 



AN AFTERNOON RIDE. 

THE swallows are sweeping o'er meadow and lea, 
The woodpecker's bill shakes a song from the tree, 
There's a breeze on the land blowing in from the sea 
And I and my wheel are flying. 

There's a gleam on the waters a sail flashing white, 
There's a wash on the rocks and a sparkling of light, 
And the foam flakes are falling in crystalline flight, 
Where I and my wheel are lying. 

The foam flakes are flying away behind. 
The swallows are circling against the wind, 
There's a glow on the clouds where crimson lined 
They smother the sunlight dying. 

117 



ADIEU. 

I ASK for you the brightest smiles 
That Hfe and love can give ; 
I ask from you but one small word 

To bid one memory live ; 
I cannot tell thee e'er in words 

The mem'ries lying deep 
Within this heart, which, true till death. 
Will one dear secret keep. 

Heart beats to heart, and life to life. 

O that the frenzied dream, 
Which mocked us both, by act or word 

Or thought, I could redeem ; 
I cannot, perhaps I dare not hope 

That fate will yet retwine, 

Beyond death's stream the one bright strand 

That links this life with thine. 
iiS 



FRIENDSHIP. 

WHEN memory steals upon fancy 
And claims, like a dear old friend, 
That the past with its lights and its shadows 

With the future should sometimes blend. 
Then at moments like these when gazing 

With fancy on some fair scene 
I'll turn to my old friend memory 
And think upon what has been. 

And if in those years gone over, 

And through the long years to come, 
— The past that still speaks so sweetly 

— The future that yet is dumb : 
At the end, if I find I have touched not 

A few of the silver keys 
Of friendship, my years have passed over 

As shadows o'er sunlit seas. 

119 



RECREATION. 

SOFT whispering word to weary hearts addrest, 
How sweet thy music can those hearts attest, 
How blest the prospect, how endeared the hour 
Which welcomes thee of toil the brightest flower. 
When the worn heart and weary mind once more 
Seek in thy flowing stream a bounteous store 
Of the bright thoughts they cherish, hopes they feel, 
And which thy presence can alone reveal. 
Can startle from the daily toil and strife 
The heart that beats, the soul that gilds the life, 
Which in the weary breast would drooping lie 
By the stern will of labor doomed to die. 
But thy bright cheering presence once again 

Renews the drooping spirit, soothes the pain, 
1 20 



Bent Oars and Broken Spokes. 121 

Wafts us fresh life, sustains the weary soul, 

And from a remnant recreates a whole. 

Brightest of earth's best flowers that come to me. 

At times, when though the world has grown to be 

Less than it ever seemed to be before, 

Yet still not paled enough to close the door 

Of pleasure quite — comes thy soft touch, and gentle way 

Of changing cares to joy, as droops the day 

Into the arms of even', with lightest touch 

Slanting its shadows, while we marvel much 

That the dark curtains though they herald rest 

We welcome not, as nature's great bequest. 

Brightest of toil's few children, formed to be, 

Though last born, laden with best fruit for me. 



GIVE ME ALL 



LIFE cannot, 
Give ever, 
All that 

The heart will crave; 
Love cannot, 

Hold ever, 
Half what 

It owes the grave; 
E'en though that 

Half slumber. 
Deep, in 

A memory wave. 



122 



BY THE STREAM. 

TELL me truly 
While we ride, 
Close this babbling stream beside, 
If the words you speak to me 
Are not merely meant to be 
Little more than bubbles breaking 
Knowing naught of constancy ; 
Little more than loose leaves shaking 
At the straying breeze that free, 
Whispers low to every tree. 

So! you're silent; then I see 

Just how much you value me, 

123 



YOUR AUTOGRAPH, PLEASE. 

FRIENDSHIP'S chain fate often fashions 
In the lap of chance and flings 
Lights and shadows of Hfe's passions 

Into all its golden rings. 
And perhaps this thought here written, 

In some far-off future time 
Will recall the eve its author 
Roughly threw it into rhyme. 



124 



OAR BEND THE LAST. 



spokes and oars are bending, 

Dust is flying, bubbles hiss, 
O'er the stream of Hfe that hurries 

You along as well as Chris ; 
Therefore, dear, I will allow, that 
In some things I've been remiss. 



125 



CYCLING BAB BALLADS. 



A LAY OF A RACE. 

A RACE for a ribbon a race for a bow, — 
Five men are in line, and away they go. 
Now, while they go rushing and tearing along, 
With the flashing spokes singing the racers' loved song. 
Just listen, I'll tell you the reason, old son. 
Why a blue ribbon beckons those bold riders on. 

You see that brown jersey right there by the tent, 
'Neath that white ostrich feather so gracefully bent, 

That's Annie, the queen of the day, — 

See! she's shaking the ribbon this way. 

You know her ? you lucky old " son of a gun !" 

She's the jolliest girl, and I for one 

Will swear she's the handsomest — Robinson does — under 

the sun. 

And she's to present the blue ribbon. 

129 



1 30 Cycling Bab Ballads. 

The ribbon you see is our annual prize : 

One mile is the distance — how Robinson flies ! 
And the winner receives the ribbon, you know, 
From the queen of the day, whom you also must know 

Is the prettiest girl in town ; 

At least on the present occasion she is — 

Ha ! there's Robinson in, and the ribbon is his, 

See ! Annie is bending down ; 

She pins the ribbon — "by George" she is 

A queen, though she wears no crown. 



FORTUNE'S like the bicycle, 
She sometimes throws her rider. 
And laughing asks him why on earth 

So trustfully he tried her; 
Then winking, laughs again to hear 
Him say, no more he'll ride her. 



LANCASTER PIKE. 

(The only good road at the time of writing in the vicinity of Philadelphia.) 

OH ! of every conceivable road for a bike 
Outstretched anywhere in creation, 
Not one of the lot can beat Lancaster Pike, 

In fact, or imagination ; 
Folks not in the secret may wonder at this, 

But I tell you it's true to the letter. 
When it's good, why it's ever the essence of grand, 
When it's bad, why there's nothing that's better. 

Oh ! of every conceivable road for a trike 
That you've known of or read of in story. 

Not one can compare with old Lancaster Pike, 
It stands quite alone in its glory. 

131 



132 Cycling Bab Ballads. 

We have hundreds of miles of most beautiful streets, 
Paved with rocks, but that's nothing to speak of, 

For the boys are all right, while we give 'em the " Pike,' 
Which there's only a twenty mile streak of. 

Oh ! I've already said we have hundreds of miles 

Of streets, which the world cannot equal. 
But the dickens a one can compare with the " Pike," 

As you'll say when I tell you the sequel. 
For of every conceivable road for a ride. 

In this great and most civilized city. 
Not one can compare with the Pike, for you see 

There's no other, and so ends this ditty. 



A FIRST RIDE. 

TIMOTHY JACKSON'S a friend of mine, 
A fellow that's hard to beat, 
He's catcher, and pitcher, and bat of his nine. 
And he rows like a steamboat that's running on time, 
And to see him eat cream is a treat. 

But there's one thing that Timothy tried in vain, 

And that was to mount a machine. 
Or rather he mounted, and then it was plain 
That Tim had a lightness of head or of brain, 
And his wife most certainly thought him insane. 

He raised such a deuce of a scene. 

^33 . 



134 Cycling Bab Ballads. 

The first thing he did when he got on the back 

Of his bicycle steed was to holler out "Jack!" 

"Jack, you scoundrel! Jack, you dog, 

You said it was easy as riding a frog, 

Or sitting astride of a rainbow at noon, 

And sliding along to the lap of the moon. 

Hallo! you scamp, I'm running away. 

And there on the hill is a wagon of hay, 

Heaven send help, here's the devil to pay," 

" Twist to the right," shouted Jack from behind. 

And Tim not only twisted but twined. 

In an elegant fashion which called to one's mind 

The mazy curves and wavy flow 

Of the thread Ariadne gave to her beau. 

But there's never a lane without a turn, 
And there's never a fire but's bound to burn, 
There's never a buckle without a bend, 
And there's never a story without an end. 
And so said Tim when he went for the door 
Of a cottage neat and trim, 



Cycling Bab Ballads. 135 

And laid it flat on the clean-swept floor 
In the midst of a thunderation roar 
Of babies and women and children and men, 
Who reckoned " old Nick " had broken his pen 
And came for his supper on earth, and then. 
To have 'em to supper with him. 

Having busted the door the bicycle bent 
Its backbone under the table, and sent 

The crockery on an excursion. 
And Tim was sitting on cranberry pie, 
With a chow-chow pickle patch over his eye, 
And he reached for a prayer book and then with a 
sigh, 

Led the family prayer for conversion. 



THE LAY OF A RECREANT. 

RIDING on a bicycle may all be very nice, 
Riding on a tricycle may pay for once or twice. 
Riding on a steamboat is purely simply sweet, 
But for quiet calm enjoyment buggy riding can't be beat. 

Riding in a buggy, boys, behind a trotting mare, 
What means of locomotion with a buggy can com- 
pare. 

Riding on a bicycle you're not allowed a whip, 

And except you're on a " sociable " you cannot use your 

lip, 
Then riding on a steamboat there's a crowd on every 

hand. 
While you needn't have but two within a buggy on the 

land. 
136 



Cycling Bab Ballads. I27 

Riding in a buggy, boys, behind a trotting mare. 
What means of locomotion with a buggy can com- 
pare. 

Riding on a bicycle's a sort of Jersey treat, 

A " sociable" is better, for she may be very "sweet;" 

True, a shady nook or corner on a steamboat you may 

find, 
But there's nothing like a buggy when no bicycler's 

behind. 

Two within a buggy, boys, behind a trotting mare, 
The devil take the bicycle that can with that com- 
pare. 



"LE MISANTHROPE." 

NOW do I ride a bicycle, 
Why, yes, you just can bet 
Your bottom dollar that I do 

And so should you, but yet! 
Before you choose your mount, my man. 

Just look around and try 
What bicycle of all on earth 
Is the worst machine to buy. 

For by the luck that prompts a man 

To buy the crack machine, 
I swear that he who buys the best 

Is most serenely "green;" 
138 



Cycling Bab Ballads. 139 

Because }ou know, or if you don't, 

You shortly soon will see, 
That about what's good — or worse — what's best. 

Two cyclers can't agree. 

It mollifies a fellow quite. 

To tell him he's a fool, 
Or to hint quite sweet and gently 

That he'd better go to school ; 
But the most consoling news when he 

Has bought a new machine. 
Is to tell him there's some better mount 

He surely should have seen. 

I've had a " Standard," " Special Club," 

A " Challenge," " Expert," " Star," 
But every time I bought a mount 

Some cycling sage would mar 
The satisfaction to be gained, — 

From singling from the rest. 
The premier mount — by telling me 

I'd bought the second best. 



140 Cycling Bab Ballads. 

At present I'm possessor of 

A blooming " Victor Trike," 
For which I changed my " Expert," 

Which I'd really learned to like ; 
And now there's Harry White must owe 

Me some eternal grudge. 
For he says I'm such a jackass, 

In not trading for a Rudge. 

Now by the hopes that once I had 

Of unity of thought, 
About the best I tell you buy 

The worst that can be bought; 
For that's the only way to G 

With all your cycling kind, 
And the universal verdict will 

Agree with yours you'll find. 



THE BRITISHER'S LAMENT 

AFTER BUYING AND TRYING TO RIDE AN "AMERICAN 
STAR" BICYCLE. 

O BROTHERS, listen to the song 
That I'm about to sing, 
I tell you that you've never yet 

Experienced such a thing 
As I'm about to tell you of, 

Though you've ridden fast and far, 
For you've never straddled yet, my friends, 
A d Yankee " Star." 

And what is that I hear you say, 

In genuine surprise. 

Well then, my friends, it's nothing more 

Than what it's name implies ; 

141 



142 Cycling Bab Ballads. 

Or rather, it's a comet, for. 

Ride you near or ride you far, 

The big wheel follows after 
In that d Yankee " Star." 

You must know I'm not a champion 

Of swearing, as a rule, 
And I don't approve of telling tales 

Within, or out of school ; 
But by every blazing ember 

That burns in heaven afar, 
If you want to break your neck, just ride 

A d Yankee " Star." 

It is a safety bicycle 

Beyond a living doubt. 
If safety lies in stomach pumps, 

And turning inside out; 
And that is why the doctors all, 

In loving friendship, are 
Beseeching you to mount and ride 

A d Yankee " Star." 



Cycling Bab Ballads. 143 

Yes a header's sometimes pleasant 

And often is immense, 
When your handles gently hold you back 

From bolting through a fence ; 
But the pleasure's always lacking 

When a twelve-inch handle bar 
Digs you squarely in the stomach 

On that d Yankee " Star." 

Now that's the fix that I was in 

A few short nights ago, 
When horn and steel both strove to get 

Where softer victuals go ; 
Not only that, my feelings too, 

Which sweetly touchy are. 
Were mortified extremely 

By that d Yankee "Star." 

For Mary saw me coming down 

The street q>\\ that machine, 
A putting on an awful spurt 

To show I wasn't green ; 



144 Cycling Bab Ballads. 

When just as I was passing by- 
Old Tompkins' toy bazaar, 

I showed her how I managed that 'ere 
D old Yankee " Star." 

I've traveled on a stage coach, once. 

And soared in a balloon, 
I'd serious thoughts of taking once 

Verne's railroad to the moon ; 
I've squirmed upon a camel, 

And an Irish jaunting car, 
But devil a one of them all can beat 

That d Yankee " Star." 



THE BRITISHER'S LAMENT, No. II. 

O BRETHREN of the wheel, I'll sing 
You yet another song, 
I do assure you that it will 
Be neither short nor long ; 
For my wits are fairly flummuxed 

And scattered near and far, 
By the anti-human antics 

Of that d Yankee "Star." 

I seriously had thoughts of steering 

Eastward my canoe, 
For I'll tell you what's a secret now 

To all but me and you ; 

M5 



146 Cycling Bab Ballads. 

Since the day I dined on sawdust, 
Near Tomkins' toy bazaar, 

Why Mary's cut me just as I 
Cut that d Yankee " Star." 

She cut me dead, I do declare, 

For what I do not know, 
Except for having made myself 

A Jiandlebar-muubcd show ; > 

Or perhaps because I cut myself. 

For this confounded scar 
Is a legacy bequeathed me by 

That d Yankee " Star." 

And now there comes to cap my woes 

The story swooping down, 
That the "Star," at Philadelphia 

Nearly grabbed the racing crown ; 
After hopping round at Springfield 

In a way that dashed afar 
My hopes of how grim fate would treat 

That d Yankee "Star." 



Cycling Bab Ballads. 147 

Not satisfied with having made 

Me court a " Gibson " keg, 
For physic kept it's bunted now 

Another fellow's leg ; 
And I'm told that Hendee '11 have to hire 

A Pullman palace car 
To pull the man along who rides 

A d Yankee "Star." 

And next the pesky thing will shoot 

Across Atlantic's wave, 
And influence some noted "cracks" 

To court an early grave; 
O darn it all, as Shakespeare says. 

It's going quite too far, 
When legs and records both get smashed 

By that d Yankee " Star." 

I'm going straight to Westminster, 
The " errand old man"* shall hear 



♦William Ewart Gladstone. 



148 Cycling Bab Ballads. 

What liberal views have done for wheels, 
You bet he'll quake with fear ; 

And he'll call a cabinet council, 
And he'll publish near and far, 

How the country's going to bust upon 
A d Yankee "Star." 



DEVON HILL. 



IF cycling joys are found among 
Those promised us in heaven, 
Let's pray we'll find not one that's like 
That precious hill of Devon ; 
"A thing of beauty," says the bard. 
Will be "a joy forever," 
But though Devon's hill-top may be joy, 
It's " a thing of beauty " never. 



T. A. S. (OH'S) LAMENT? 

A VULGAR BALLAD A LA OCCIDENT. 

I'M a blamed tough, ripping rider on the " bi ;" 
I'm a racer too you just can "bet your eye;" 
I'm a terror on the " wheel," 
A sundowner on a "steal" 
For to " hook " a brand new bicycle " I'm fly." 

Let me get my claws once on a handsome " bike,' 
Give me twenty yards or so upon the " pike ;" 

To catch me then you'll fail 

Though you gripped the " old gent's " tail 
And he rode a Hades' manufactured " trike." 

149 



150 Cycling Bab Ballads. 

If you own a " Rucker Tandem " or a " trike " 
Or an " Expert " or some other kind of " bike," 

Pretty " Facile " or fat " Club," 

" Star " or any other tub, 
Say your aves when you meet me on the pike. 

Yes you reckon I'm a racer and all think 

That I'm bound to "raise the hair" on dear old "Brink. 

Oh ! you bet he's sick and hazy 

As is every other daisy, 
For of racers T. A. S.* is just " the pink." 



* A member of the Pennsylvania Bicycle Club. 



SHORT " PANTS " AND LONG LUNGS. 

THERE'S a nuisance that we must abate, 
One that sorely afflicts this our town, 
What it is I need only to state 

To insure its completest knock down ; 
And this great crying evil we see 

When our heart is the fullest of joy, 
For that is the moment of bliss 

To the heart of the selfish small boy. 

He's the nuisance that troubles this town. 
Though he's all very nice in his way, 

Indeed it's a question to me 

How without him we'd live for a day ; 



152 Cycling Bab Ballads. 

But I tell you his worth is not quite 
Its weight in proverbial old gold, 

When he takes the fell notion to make 
You, through using expletives, grow old. 

Now mark ! I'm in no way disposed 

To disparage our blooming young sons, 
Though in matters of pleasure they purely 

Consider their sweet " Number Ones ;" 
And on this very head I complain 

That the rising young nation to-day 
Is addicted most strongly to some 

Most precociously smart kinds of play. 

Now, for instance, when I was a boy, 

And from being so fully inclined 
To indulge in all innocent larks 

Which my free roving fancy could find, 
I'd play each unpatented trick 

That to youthful affection appeals, 
Yet I never dared say to a " dad " 

" You're a nice looking dude upon wheels." 



Cycling Bab Ballads. 153 

Now this is the nuisance I say 

That Councils must surely abate, 
For, brothers, what is there at all 

In Councils, or Senate, or State, 
If we cyclers can't ride at our ease 

Without hearing the pride-purging squeals 
Come sailing along, from some son going wrong : 

" You're a nice looking dude upon wheels " ? 



THE devil take the bicycle," 
Was all the deacon said, 
When bearing up against the wind 

He landed on his head ; 
So said his wife when putting back 

The broomstick in the shed, 
While the good man wished for two stout Turks 
And a trusty feather bed. 



RHYME THE LAST. 



after all the bother 

This old book has given Chris, 
Will you not for once be kindly 
Every girl knows how to kiss. 
Ha! you say that asking in this 

Fashion, I the boon shall miss; 
Perhaps — but have you never dreamed 
That Chris would sing a sonc; like this 



154 

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